Velvet Night (Author's Cut Edition) Read online

  “Meaning you’re not.”

  Kenna shrugged and let him draw his own conclusions.

  “I doubt Victorine is up at this hour and Nick is happily settled behind his paper in the breakfast room. Your brother isn’t any company at all until he’s read the gossip sheet and financial news. Never was.”

  Kenna reined in Pyramid abruptly and stared at Rhys, her chin raised a notch. “Why have you come, Rhys?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what I asked. Why have you come to Dunnelly now? Your last visit was nearly two years ago, when you returned from the fighting in Spain. You never come without some purpose in mind so I am asking: What is the purpose of your visit now?”

  “Pray, tell me, Kenna. What was the nature of my visit the last time?”

  “To regale my brother and Victorine with your heroics on the battlefield.”

  Rhys’s eyes narrowed and his voice hardened. “Is that what you thought?”

  Kenna averted her eyes and felt herself weakening under his glowering. She felt like a child jumping at shadows, but there was no escaping the fact that she did not want to be alone with Rhys in the woods a moment longer. With Rhys and his mount crowding her on the path it was too narrow for her to change directions comfortably, but there was a clearing up ahead and Kenna nudged Pyramid forward, turning him around and heading back the way they came.

  Rhys had not followed Kenna but when she returned he was waiting for her, Higgins facing the path out of the woods. When she attempted to pass him he reached out and took Pyramid’s reins.

  Kenna shied away immediately, dropping the ribbons. “What are you—”

  “I asked you a question. I intend to receive an answer.”

  “Yes. That’s why I thought you came. Didn’t you want to prove that you were one of Wellington’s favorites? Does my memory serve me? Was it two horses that were shot out beneath you in one battle? Didn’t you then lead men against Napoleon’s armies on the Peninsula on foot? You were part of that bloody war for five years and you and I both know why.”

  Rhys went very still. “Why?” he asked softly.

  Kenna pitched caution to the four winds. “Because you wanted to prove to Nicholas that you were not the traitor my father accused you of being!” She paused and said scathingly, “But how could you be otherwise, you…American! Every story you told was carefully calculated to make you sound the modest hero. Damn you, Rhys Canning! You may have convinced Nick you had nothing to do with my father’s murder, but all the heroics in the world won’t convince me! No doubt the fighting could have been finished in half those years if Wellington had known one of his officers was a spy, a traitor, and a murderer!”

  Had last night’s dream not still been so vivid in her mind Kenna doubted she could have spoken as she just had. Those memories, preserved in her head in the same vibrant colors as the tapestries in the gallery, goaded her on.

  Rhys caught his breath and his leather gloves were pulled taut around his clenched fists. His jaw ached from the stiff way he held it, biting back the words he wanted to use to flay her. “Dreams haunting you again Kenna?” he asked in a tight voice. “Permit me to give you something to dream about.”

  But Rhys did not wait for permission to be granted. Without any more warning he yanked the ribbons from Kenna’s hands and tossed them aside, hauling Kenna onto the saddle in front of him.

  Kenna was too startled to fight and when she gathered her wits she also recognized the futility of such a gesture. She sat rigidly, her hip and shoulder nestled intimately against Rhys’s unyielding thighs and chest. “What are you doing?” she asked between clenched teeth.

  Kenna felt her hat slide from her head as one of Rhys’s hands clutched her thick braid, pulling back and lifting her face to him. A small space of wintry air separated Rhys’s mouth from hers. Then it was gone, replaced by a warm, sweet, impatient sigh as Rhys studied her mouth with eyes that had lost their pewter softness and darkened dramatically.

  The sweep of changes in Rhys’s face frightened Kenna. She blinked, her expressive eyes shaded for a moment by the sweep of her long lashes. Her features paled as she awaited his retribution and the mutinous line of her mouth vanished as her lower lip trembled. What was he thinking? she wondered. She nervously touched the corner of her mouth with her tongue and heard Rhys’s sharp intake of breath and felt his body stiffen against her.

  “You are still such a child, Kenna,” he said quietly, looking away from her mouth to her eyes. “You don’t deserve the retaliation I had in mind.”

  She would have asked him what he meant but there was no time. Without pause Rhys twisted her around in the saddle so that she was lying belly down in front of him, her wrists caught neatly behind her in one of his hands and the back of her legs trapped beneath one riding boot. Higgins moved restlessly, jolting Kenna uncomfortably until Rhys also brought him under control. Kenna was uncertain if her face flamed because of the ignominy of her position or because of the blood rushing to her head. She stared at her rakish little hat lying on the ground below her and continued to eye it through a wash of angry tears as the flat of Rhys’s gloved hand came down hard on her bottom.

  Though he did not spare her his strength, his slaps did not hurt overmuch. Her heavy wool riding skirt saw her well protected against the sharpness of his punishment, but there was no protection for the humiliation. Kenna had no idea how many times Rhys lifted his hand against her and to her mind it was of no consequence. That he raised his hand once was one time too many. She was unsatisfied by the tortures she designed for him in her mind. There was no method of suffering she knew that was not too quick for him. She wanted his agony to last for years. If it were in her power she would consign him to hell. Tonight, she vowed, she would pray for it.

  Kenna’s whimper stayed Rhys’s hand, penetrating the frustration that had blinded his reason. “Damn you, Kenna Dunne,” he swore deeply. “And damn me as well.” Rhys released his hold over Kenna, slid his hands beneath her arms and aided her descent from his horse. He steadied her, leaning over Higgins as her knees buckled slightly when her feet touched the ground.

  Light-headed, but retaining a measure of pride, Kenna pushed away from his loathsome touch and stood on her own. “How dare you damn me!” she said, swiping at the tears sparkling in her eyes. “You are without conscience! But we knew that already, you and I. If ever a finer feeling crossed your mind you would not have come to Dunnelly! You are not welcome here, Rhys Canning! Why not go back to the place that spawned you?”

  “Boston?”

  “Hell!”

  Rhys’s eyes swept Kenna. Without seeming to settle anywhere his eyes took in all of her. He saw the mottled color of her face, the uneven blush that revealed her rage before she spoke one word. Her mouth no longer trembled but her chin quivered slightly, betraying her emotions. Her heavy braid fell over one shoulder, the red-gold tip curving gently beneath her heaving breasts. The hem of her dark skirt was dusted with snow and caught between her slender legs, revealing their coltish lines and the narrow turn of her ankles.

  Sighing heavily, Rhys turned away, a grimace tightening his mouth, and kicked Higgins into a walk.

  Behind him Kenna’s mouth fell open but no sound came out. She could not believe he was leaving her, ignoring her as if she were of no import. She stamped her foot, angered further because it made no sound on the powdery snow and called after him. “I hate you, Rhys Canning! Do you hear? I hate you!”

  Rhys heard. Indeed, how could he not? Kenna’s voice was raised like the veriest fishwife. So she hated him, did she? It was no more than he expected, no more than he thought he deserved for being unable to give her the truth. His handsome features were twisted by a bitter smile. The truth? How he wished he knew it! The tenth anniversary of Robert Dunne’s death would be upon them this year and he knew little more about the identity of the murderer now than he did then. The suspicions he had carefully guarded over the years were without foundation. The proof lay som
ewhere in Kenna’s mind, in her dreams, of that he was certain, but for too many painful years those dreams had done nothing but damn him. His broad shoulders slumped as he approached the stables. Lord, but he was tired of it all.

  Kenna dallied overlong in her bath, hoping that Rhys would have left the breakfast room by the time she came downstairs. She arranged her unfashionably long hair on her head and dressed in a simple day dress of soft gray wool suitable for Dunnelly’s drafty corridors and chilly rooms. As added protection she threw a deep maroon shawl over her shoulders. Her personal maid clucked her tongue chidingly at Kenna’s chosen attire.

  “It clashes with your hair, Lady Kenna,” Janet said as Kenna glanced in the mirror and arranged the shawl’s end into a neat knot.

  “That hardly matters. It will keep me warm.”

  Janet Gourley lifted her hands in a helpless gesture. She wished Kenna would not dress like a dowd for she felt it cast a reflection on her own fashion sense and worth as a lady’s maid. It horrified her to think what Rhys Canning’s thoughts would be when he saw Kenna. He was a guest after all and to her mind Kenna owed him a proper presentation.

  At the entrance to the breakfast room Kenna halted, hearing voices within. Her hand hovered over the door’s handle as she considered speaking to Henderson and taking her breakfast in her room. Although she doubted she would enjoy any of her food if she had to eat it in Rhys’s presence, the alternative seemed cowardly. He would hardly lift a hand against her in Nick’s presence. Using that thought to bolster her flagging courage, Kenna entered the room.

  Nick was laughing at some jest Rhys had made, his head thrown back and his blue eyes alight with mirth. Normally Kenna would have found his merriment infectious but now she barely smiled.

  Nick lowered his head, pushing back his chair from the table as he caught sight of his sister. “Kenna! Good, you’ve come. I thought you might hide in your room in which case I would have no choice but to listen to Rhys’s tales all morning. Now I can attend a business matter with my man and you can keep this poor excuse for a libertine company.”

  “I would hardly hide in my room,” she said quietly, the lie nearly sticking in her throat. She ignored the skeptical lift of Rhys’s brows and began to serve herself from the sideboard. “Please, take yourself off. Perhaps Rhys would prefer to join you.”

  Nick’s fingers threaded through his dark hair, classically styled to affect a careless, wind-blown look. Unlike his sister, Nick was up to every vagary of the current mode. He even looked comfortable in his tailored dove gray coat though it was so tight it required the full assistance of his valet to put it on and take it off. “Rhys? Would you rather join me? I must warn you, it’s dull stuff. Accounts and such.”

  Thank you for nothing, Kenna thought, piling her plate higher than was her wont simply to keep her back to Rhys as long as she was able.

  “I’ve a mind to have another plate of eggs.”

  “Pig,” Kenna muttered.

  “Did you say something, Kenna?” Rhys asked blandly.

  “I was thinking I’d like some bacon. There doesn’t appear to be any.” She turned away from the sideboard and blushed as both men eyed the mound of food on her plate.

  Nick rose from his seat and held out a chair for Kenna, giving her an affectionate kiss on the cheek as she sat down. “Don’t know where you’d put it, sprite,” he whispered, laughter lurking on his lips. He straightened, touching her shoulder lightly. “I’m off. Don’t let her badger you, Rhys.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it,” Rhys replied easily.

  Following Nick’s exit, a strained silence filled the room. Kenna concentrated on eating, a function she realized she had taken entirely for granted until she had to do it under Rhys’s speculative gaze. The eggs seemed exceptionally slippery so that keeping them on her fork was difficult in its own right. Inside her mouth they tasted rubbery and she chewed the flavor out of them, wondering all the while if she could manage to swallow without choking. Even buttering her scone took an inordinate amount of skill.

  Without looking at him Kenna asked, “Aren’t you going to have your eggs?”

  “Weren’t you ever taught not to talk with your mouth full?”

  Mortified, Kenna’s jaw clamped down on the bit of biscuit in her mouth which resulted in biting the tender inner lining of her cheek. “Oh!” Her head jerked up and pain welled in her eyes. She pushed away her plate and looked at Rhys accusingly.

  Rhys slid her plate across the table toward him. “Thank you,” he said calmly, as if it had been her intention to share the better part of her breakfast with him.

  Kenna watched incredulously and not a little enviously as Rhys coolly tucked into the remains of her meal. He smiled at her over a forkful of eggs. “Delicious.”

  Kenna nursed the inside of her cheek with her tongue. “I’m glad you like them,” she said politely, refusing to be goaded by his complacency and amusement.

  “What? You don’t hope I choke on them? That surprises me.”

  I hope they give you indigestion. She said, “I am not so small-minded.”

  “Oh? I hadn’t noticed. Dare I hope this morning’s altercation is responsible for the change?”

  “If it pleases you. I shall strive to be accommodating.”

  “I wonder,” Rhys said enigmatically, his eyes on her mouth. Almost immediately he looked away, buttering the remnants of a scone and popped it in his mouth.

  Kenna watched him chew, wondering why it did not unnerve him as it did her when he stared. She added a generous dollop of milk to her tea and sipped it, refusing to let on the drink was so bland now as to be tasteless.

  “My father is in London,” Rhys said quietly.

  Kenna was not certain she had heard correctly. She raised her brows in question.

  “Earlier you asked why I came to Dunnelly,” he explained. “My father is in London, staying at the duchess’s townhouse.” It was not necessary to add this was only part of the reason for his presence. Kenna would draw her own conclusions, accurate ones as far as they went.

  “Have you spoken with him?”

  “Briefly. It was enough.”

  Kenna sensed his bitterness but chose not to remark upon it. “Your brother?”

  “Richard is with him. They were part of President Madison’s diplomatic mission to work out the terms of peace between the United States and England. It was finished last month. They’ll be leaving soon. I understand Father’s business suffered great losses during the war.”

  “And you? Will you go to Boston with them?”

  “No.” He did not mention he had not been asked. “Neither has forgiven me for staying in London while the British and Americans fought. They were of the opinion I should rush across the Atlantic and make their cause mine.”

  “Why didn’t you? There are many people here who say that war was avoidable, brought on by our single-mindedness. I believe the Americans took exception to our Orders in Council, barring their right to trade freely.” She paused as Rhys’s amused smile caught her attention. “Why are you laughing at me? I am not some whey-faced miss who knows nothing of what goes on in the world!”

  Rhys’s expression sobered immediately. “Then you will recall the Orders in Council were adopted to stop the United States from trading with, and therefore supporting, Napoleon’s empire. England was at war with France.”

  “How generous of you to defend your adopted land.”

  Rhys shook his head, “Let us say I understand England’s position, but I don’t applaud it. For instance, I could never sanction the Royal Navy boarding American ships and impressing free men. There is a matter I could have fought for. It was that blatant infringement of those rights which rallied the Americans to war. The Orders of Council angered men in trade like my father. Impressment outraged a nation.”

  “But you didn’t join the Americans,” Kenna pointed out.

  “It was 1812,” Rhys sighed heavily. “I had just returned from the Peninsula, Kenna.” There was a
n ache, a weariness in his voice. “I was tired of the atrocities of war.”

  Silence settled between them and Kenna looked away, unable to face the raw pain in his gray eyes. Rhys was more complex than she had suspected, loyal not to any one country, but to himself, to the principle he believed in. She wished she did not find him intriguing.

  “The things you said to me in the woods,” Rhys said. “They’re not true, Kenna.”

  She put her cup down sharply at his abrupt change of subject and the serious tone of his voice. “You’ve always said so.”

  “And you’ve always refused to believe me. Why is that?”

  “Why is it important that I believe you, Rhys? Everyone else does. Nick has defended you from the beginning. Victorine has never given any credence to my memory of that night. Yvonne worshipped you. If you had given her any encouragement she would have fallen in love with you. Can it matter so much that I alone think of you in a different light?”

  “It matters,” Rhys said. “Would any man like to stand accused of murder? Where is your proof, Kenna?”

  “My dreams—”

  “Damn those dreams! What can you remember from that night that has not come to you while you were in the throes of Morpheus?”

  “Nothing,” she said softly and added, inadequately, “That is, it’s confused.”

  “And yet you treat me as if I were guilty of causing your father’s death.”

  “I cannot help it,” she said miserably.

  “You can.”

  “I cannot! What is, is! Do you think I don’t want to remember that night? Mayhap I would be free then, free of sleepless nights or ones that end abruptly because terror wakes me. Can you believe I enjoy living like this, afraid every night to close my eyes?”

  “Kenna.” He reached across the table to take her hand.

  Kenna withdrew it quickly and folded her hands in her lap, leaving Rhys with his arm outstretched. He looked at it for a helpless moment before he retracted it. “I don’t want anything from you, Rhys. Certainly not your comfort. You are the one constant in all my worst nightmares. Your presence is the one thing that remains, no matter how the dreams differ. I know you were with my father in the cave. The lead ball that killed him may not have come from your pistol, but you were the reason he was there that night.”